


My Heart Is At Ease

by isitandwonder



Category: Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault, RENAULT Mary - Works
Genre: AU set after Funeral Games, Bagoas in Egypt, Happy Ending, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28817718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: "Bagoas, whose name had been proclaimed in no citation, followed behind the rear guard [...] But he rode contented. His task was done, his god was served; and there would still be his fame to tend in his chosen city."This is the last we hear from Bagoas, in Funeral Games. In The Persian Boy we learn that at the time he tells his story he's living in Egypt.I wanted to imagine his life there. And I wanted happiness for him. So this is set after Bagoas accompanies Alexander's body to Egypt. There, in Memphis, Bagoas meets the stonemason Ipi, with whom he finds peace and love away from the court and its demands and intrigues...
Relationships: Bagoas favorite of Alexander the Great/OMC
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	My Heart Is At Ease

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leili/gifts).



> This is my belated birthday fic for my dear friend Leili! It's neither as sad nor as smutty as my usual fare but I still hope you like it! Many happy returns!  
> The title is a quote from Imam Al-Shafi’i:  
>  _“My heart is at ease knowing that what was meant for me will never miss me, and that what misses me was never meant for me.”_
> 
> Don't be surprised that this story is set in Memphis. This was where Ptolemy took Alexander's body. He was only later translated to Alexandria. The location of his grave has been lost over the centuries.

The Greek clothes I’ve been wearing lately still feel a little strange. No trousers, no sleeves, just a rectangle of linen worn over another… But it’s the latest fashion here in Memphis and I don’t want to stand out and draw attention.

That’s why I’ve also kept my hair short. It had grown back after the initial mourning period, but I now wear it cropped and curled like everyone else.

He says it suits me, that it brings out my beautiful eyes.

_I remember someone calling me gazelle eyes…_

But that was in another life, long over.

I have to forget all about it or it’ll kill me.

I’ve felt so hollow those past months since-

No, I’m not ready to speak about it.

He understands. Understands when I fall silent, when I curl into myself.

That’s when he tries to charm me, to amuse me. To pull me out of this dark place I still too easily flee to.

And sometimes he succeeds in distracting me. With his words, his mouth, his hands…

How we met you want to know?

It was the day Ptolemy laid Iskander to rest in the temple of Ptah.

See, I managed to say his name.

I have to say, I don’t quite understand all these Egyptian gods and what they stand for. It’s a rather crowded and foreign concept to me. I’m used to worship differently, and it’s not easy here, despite Memphis being such a huge city with people from all over the world.

Persians are accepted but not liked here.

We are a small community. And I keep my distance. Someone might recognize me from before Iskander. I’m not sure that would end well for me. Some disturbing things went on back home... and it’s still unclear which side will win. Better not get involved. I’m not even sure I will ever return to Susa or Babylon.

Too many memories.

And I really don’t want to dwell on the past.

So, where was I? Yes, how we met.

Ptolemy had invited me to the ceremony but I was unable to go. Like, literally unable. I couldn’t bring my legs to walk in the direction of the grand temple, to climb its stairs.

So I just wandered the streets of Memphis, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth more than a thousand years old.

Ghost lingered at every corner but I wasn’t afraid; I welcomed them. You see, I live with my own ghosts around me and they are strangely comforting. And these, too, didn’t judge me or asked questions, they just looked on and let me be.

Darkness fell.

I could hear the trombones and drums, people shouting and singing, signifying a major procession.

It’s almost done, I thought.

Do you know that here in Egypt they believe that the heart of the dead is weighed against a feather? And only if it passes the test he’s allowed into the afterlife.

I’ve known him well. He was a good man but I’m not sure he’ll pass this test. He was always just in his judgement but that doesn’t mean he was innocent.

I just hope he meets Hephaistion – wherever he goes.

Yes, with the distance of months, almost years now, I can be generous. When they were both alive it was so much harder. But now, as the last one standing, I feel that I’m the only living guardian of their deep and tender love. They are both dead and hopefully together – while I’m still here, alone, but with a life I can look forward to living.

With thoughts like these in my head I was stumbling through the narrow dimly-lit streets of the old town when I heard suspicious noises behind me. Whispers. Feet shuffling on the dusty ground.

Suddenly, someone yelling, shrill and loud.

I turned out of instinct.

Then arms grabbed me from behind, trying to drag me into a gloomy doorway.

Maybe they’d seen my beardless face, my smooth complexion, my slim built. And had thought I was easy prey.

Well, I didn’t go to war with Iskander for years for nothing.

I had a dagger hidden beneath the folds of my himation. And I knew how to use it.

The man trying to overpower me suddenly screamed and let go of me as his blood sprayed all over the brick wall.

I was aware of other shadows moving in the dark, so I turned this way and that, bloody dagger in one hand.

When two of them attacked I stabbed one and punched the other.

I’m a dancer. I’m stronger than I look.

My blade slid into soft tissue while my fist hit hard bone.

I’m still not good at understanding the local language, but it seemed someone was cheering those thugs on from somewhere in the shadows. They were miserable creatures, thin as willows, dressed in rags.

They had nothing to lose.

And I had no idea against how many of them I was up.

I was trying to figure out how to escape when suddenly a man stormed into the deserted street, wielding a chisel.

At first I feared he was after me as well as his angry voice echoed from the walls but he ran past me, making straight for the dark corners, from where I now heard fearful squalls. Suddenly it seemed the alley was crawling with people.

And then they were gone.

The man turned around to me and said in Greek (only with a slight accent). “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?”

He walked up to me and reached out. I raised my dagger, standing my ground.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Easy.” He lowered his chisel, then grinned. “Boy, you really gave these scumbags the fright of the gods. By the way, I’m Ipi, the stonemason.”

“And I’m not a boy.” I said proudly, putting my blade back into the sheath I kept hidden under my chiton. “My name is Bagoas.”

I still remember how he cocked his head before extending his huge hand again. When I took it a little hesitantly I felt how rough it was.

It instantly reminded me of HIS hand, calloused from carrying his weapons in countless battles.

I shivered.

“You’re in shock. Come, let’s go inside, you need a cup of wine.”

I walked with him without a second thought.

His house was clean and airy, with his workshop in the front downstairs and his living quarters at the back on the other side of a green courtyard.

Since then I’ve spent many evenings under the date palm trees there, listening to the murmur of the fountain.

The room he led me into was illuminated by lanterns and furnished with small Egyptian stools and soft cushions around a low table made of dark wood. As I don’t trust those tiny chairs (they look as if they are made for children) I sank down onto an embroidered cushion and coyly folded my legs under me.

These Greek clothes can be awfully revealing. It can be hard to move and sit decently wearing only a sheet held together by a clasp and a girdle. So while I was still arranging the fabric around me to cover my naked limbs, Ipi offered me a cup of sweet red wine he’d poured from a big wine jug in the corner.

“Here. Drink up. You look pale.”

“Thank you.” I took the cup with both hands as not so spill any of the wine because I was still shaking.

Suddenly, I felt very confused and tired. Yet a sip of the wine refreshed me.

Ipi was squatting on a stool, holding a cup as well but not drinking. He was watching me instead.

“Better?” He asked.

I nodded.

He leaned forward, openly staring at me. I felt my face heat, not only from the drink.

I put down my still half-full cup and gathered my robes. “I have to go. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Stay, please.” He said, but didn’t move to stop me.

“I really need to leave.”

“Just give me a few moments. Please. I can get you some dates and cheese. You look a bit peaky.”

“No, really, I don’t want to trouble you-“

“No trouble at all.” He was getting up and calling out something in his guttural mother tongue. Quickly, a young boy appeared, carrying a tray. He was dressed in just the usual linen loincloth wrapped around his waist.

He put the tray down on the table, smiled, and left.

“You have a very cheery slave there.” I said because the behaviour felt a little odd to me.

“Oh, he’s not a slave. He’s my apprentice.” He pointed at the food on the tray. “Please, eat something.”

I picked a date and put it in my mouth.

“May I draw you?” He suddenly blurted out.

I almost choked on the fruit I was chewing. “Draw me?” I coughed.

“Just a quick sketch. I told you, I’m a stone mason.” 

Only now did I realize that he wasn’t as naked as the Egyptians usually are, but that wore a tunic and an apron over it.

“You know, I got a commission to make a statue of Selket, and you’d be the perfect model.” He explained.

I was too surprised to answer and so I didn’t reply while he fetched a wooden plate and some charcoal.

“Shall I… do anything? Pose?” I asked when he had brought a few more oil lamps from an adjacent room.

“No, no, just sit back down. Here, have more wine.” I realized then that as generous as he was with the drink he must be quite a wealthy man. Wine is expensive in Egypt and only great artists get paid with it.

He was quiet while he sketched, his gaze wandering between me and his drawing. Sometimes he frowned, sometimes he stared, sometimes he mumbled something under his breath.

It didn’t take long, though, until he put the sketch to the side.

“Did you… get what you wanted?” I asked.

“Yes, for now. The light…,” he made a gesture at the flickering lamps and shrugged. “Will you do me the honour to visit me again tomorrow, so I can finish?”

“Well…” He had helped me in a dangerous situation. I didn’t want to be ungrateful but his scrutiny unnerved me a little. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of being turned into one of their gods.

“Please. You know, I’m an artist, and you inspire something in me. I feel… I’m not sure I can express it in Greek.” He smiled.

For the first time I realized how handsome he was. His black hair was short and he didn’t cover it with a wig like most Egyptians do. He had big dark eyes, a strong nose, and at this time of day a shadow of scruff was showing on his jaw. His shoulders were broad and his arms, chest and legs well sculpted.

He looked intelligent but you could also tell that he was working with his hands. He wasn’t one of those softened flunkeys hanging about the palace were Ptolemy resided now.

“Please.” He said again.

I finished my wine, then nodded. “If you’re sure you want me.”

“I am.”

That was the beginning.

I began to visit him in the late afternoons when it was getting a little cooler, a breeze coming up from the river. Ipi took quite some time to finish his sketch for Selket (which, funnily, would end up as a votive gift at the shrine of Iskander, offered by Ipi’s wealthy customer. So, somehow, I’m still with him.) He made me come back to his workshop day after day. When the light faded and it got too dark to work, he dined and wined me, conversing with me for hours to – as he explained - improve his Greek.

And when it was getting late and the lanterns had burned low, all food gone, he himself walked me to the edge of the old town to see me safely home. I was staying at a guest house on the palace grounds but I didn’t want him to know that. So we parted where the new, broader streets and open squares began.

After ten days, however, he declared that his drawing was finished. To my surprise I felt a little sad. As he asked me to stay after dinner, I naturally thought he wanted to show me his sketch. But instead he passed me a beautifully crafted wooden box.

“Open it.”

In it I found a very fine silver bangle, decorated with a scarab made of lapis lazuli. I gasped.

Ipi gently fastened it around my bare upper arm, his rough fingertips brushing my skin.

“We associate the scarab with Cheper. That is one manifestation of Re, the sun god. He stands for renewal.” He looked into my eyes. “I feel that is something you need, Bagoas.”

He had asked me a few evenings ago what had brought me to Memphis. I’d fallen silent. I didn’t want to lie to him. But I also didn’t want to tell him the truth. That way laid too many questions I felt I could never answer.

He still doesn’t know everything. But I’ve disclosed that I know Ptolemy (Ipi is pursuing him to get some commissions) and that I came with him to Egypt. I don’t know if he suspects more but he’s not one to pry.

The evening he gave me the bangle was the first time he kissed me. Very chase, just a peck on the lips.

He then asked me if I would dine with him again the next day. Without the pretext of drawing me. Just us, him and me.

I agreed.

He was always very respectful, very courteous. We mostly spoke of art and traveling. It turned out that he’d been to Athens and to Ephesus, to study Greek sculpting. When I told him about Babylon his eyes began to shine.

The next evening, he again accompanied me to the fringe of the old town. When we said good-bye he gently kissed me on the cheek. That was all.

It took him a full moon to ask me to stay the night.

He’d finished the statue that day and showed it to me. It was small but enchanting, made of smooth black granite. The features of the goddess were solemn and dignified, proud but without conceit.

“This is how you see me?” I asked.

He smiled and took my hand.

He was as attentive in the bedroom as he’d been in his workshop. He gently undid my girdle and kept looking in my eyes as he unfastened the clasps over my shoulders.

The fabric fell to the floor and I stood in front of him, naked.

You know, some men stare. Quite bluntly. I’ve experienced it in a lot of camps where everyone shares the latrine trench. It’s a mixture of curiosity and more or less hidden distain – for me, for what I am, and how I make the men looking feel. Sometimes there’s pity. Often, there’s lechery that makes me quite uncomfortable.

But Ipi didn’t look between my legs. He just took my chin between thumb and forefinger and kissed me. Soft, but deep.

That first night, and all the nights after, he worshipped me. I have no other word for it. He kissed and stroked every part of my body until I felt as if I was floating on clouds. When he took me into his mouth I sighed. When his lips travelled to other, more hidden places, I moaned.

It didn’t hurt.

Only one other man had ever made love to me without that searing pain shooting through me in the moment of utter bliss…

Ipi didn’t ask anything of me. As I wanted to return the favour, it turned out that he’d already finished, just by grinding against my thigh.

He held me close as we lay on his bed, both satiated. The thin curtains surrounding us (to keep those awful gnats away from our sweaty skin) hid us from the world and all its hardship and sorrow. I felt at peace.

So much so that I was tempted to close my eyes. I was bone-tired with satisfaction but I was still used to leave after providing pleasure. I didn’t want Ipi to think I expected anything more from him. I didn’t want to impose myself on him. I had enjoyed myself but I had also learned when the right time to leave was.

Because I feared to fall asleep on Ipi, I forced myself to roll out of bed, my eyes searching for the heap of my discarded clothes.

“Where’re you going?” Ipi murmured.

“Home.” I replied.

Instead of saying anything, he just grunted and pulled me back down again.

Resistance was futile and I was too exhausted to struggle.

I spent the night with my cheek pressed against Ipi’s chest, sleeping like a baby.

That’s how I’ve spent many nights since. He says he enjoys waking up with me. I enjoy that, too.

Last night, he asked me if I wanted to do it like the Greeks did it. My answer was yes. How could I refuse and deny him what he craved? 

Though, truth be told, I’d been waiting for him to ask.

Feeling him pressed against my back, covering me with his strong body, felt incredible. As he slid between my thighs I could hear him breathe against my neck, whispering sweet nothings into my ear.

We both reached the peak at the same time. I’m still shivering as I remember it. I hope we’ll repeat it tonight.

Every day he tells me how beautiful I am.

He’s drawn me quite often, by now, in many poses – not all fit for his gods (the Greeks, I’ve learned, are more permissive). He likes to sketch me in the early morning light, lying naked on our bed, my hair tousled and my limbs still heavy from sleep.

He says my lazy smile reminds him of a Sphinx.

When I jokingly asked him if there was a market for lewd paintings in Memphis he just scowled. 

“These are just for me. No one else is ever going to see them.”

So I just lie there and allow my thoughts to drift. Back to Susa, to Ekbatana, to Babylon. To the edge of the world I reached with Iskander.

He wanted so much. He wanted the whole world.

Ipi wants only me. 

And so, after all this time I’ve spent with the Great Men of our world, who were admired and feared like gods, whom I watched make history while I was loving and serving them, I eventually feel seen for who I am.

I’m not the Persian boy, concubine of two kings. I’m not a silly, ridiculous eunuch. I’m not the beguiling dancer trained to seduce. I’m not helpless spoils of war. I’m not a courtier depending on my master’s favour.

To Ipi, I’m just Bagoas.

And I’m loved.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm neither an expert on Ancient Egypt nor on Ancient Persia. I tried to do my research and hope I didn't make too many mistakes.


End file.
